


Fever

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Chapter 1 Spoilers, Fever, Hurt!John, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, mentions of abuse, mentions of hanging, mentions of wolf attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16933923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: Arthur returns from a frigid but successful hunt with Charles. He checks in on John who is recovering from his run-in with the wolves. He’s not doing too well. Abigail is noticeably on edge, but not necessarily for the reason that Arthur initially thinks.





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing explicit in this first installment, but tags and ratings will change as time goes on. I’ll be keeping installments with spoilers clearly marked. I’m personally still enjoying Chapter 2. It’s a wonderful game and I’m ready to see this fandom grow.
> 
> ***
> 
> Series title inspired by the song The Past Six Years by Deaf Havana.

Arthur entered the cabin as the light was fading. He’d just finished washing the deer blood from his hands. He’d never given a bow much attention. He’d been pointed in the direction of guns, knives his fists and his words when it came to getting things done. 

Yet, Charles had called him a natural. It might have been the motivation of the gang, his family, sitting in this abandoned mining town, cold and hungry that had steadied his aim. Whatever the reason, he and Pearson had just dressed the two does he and Charles had brought back. 

They wouldn’t be starving any time soon at least.

“Venison stew tonight, folks.” He grunted, closing the door behind him. 

The others looked up at him in surprise. Jack stirred from where he was resting in Abigail’s lap, “Really, Uncle Arthur?”

He walked to the end of the cabin and ruffled the boy’s hair, “Soon enough, Jack.” He looked over Abigail to see John. The man was lying in the cot with as many blankets as they could spare piled on top of him. What Arthur could see of his face around the bloodstained bandages was red, and swollen. His breathing was laboured, and a drop of sweat rolled down his neck.

Arthur looked back to Abigail. Her hair was pulled back as best as she could manage, but still in disarray. She held a blanket close around herself and her son. The poor woman looked exhausted, having hardly left John’s side for the last few days.

Since Arthur and Javier had rescued him from the mountains, his condition had deteriorated. That first day back had seen him in the same cot with only one blanket and crude bandages. He’d managed some of the Reverend’s whiskey to keep the pain away and ravenously ate biscuits. Hell, he’d even seemed fully willing to drag himself to his feet to help the gang raid Colm O’Driscoll’s camp. 

He’d been close enough to being himself to crack a joke. Smirking up at Dutch and Arthur like he hadn’t just been chewed up by wolves the previous day. 

“How’s he doin’?” Arthur asked.

Abigail sighed tiredly, her breath clouding the air in front of her. “He’s still got a fever, but he ain’t having fits no more. He might be getting past the worst of it.”

She glanced up at Arthur, and then lowered her gaze. He didn’t miss the way she looked at him. Something strange about it. She almost looked like she did when she was cowed or sore about something. Had to be the lack of sleep and worrying about John.

“You must be tired,” Arthur started, “Why don’t you get some rest? I can look after him.”

Abigail looked up at him. Quicker this time. There was definitely something in her eyes, no mistake. “N-no, I’m fine.”

Miss Grimshaw chose then to speak up, “No, you surely aren’t. You haven’t left that that spot in three days. You haven’t slept, and your Jack hasn’t left your side because of it.”

Abigail and Arthur looked to the older woman as she moved over to them, keeping her shawl tightly wrapped around her. Her arms were crossed in such a way that everyone was familiar with. The way that indicated that she would bear no arguments. 

“You need to keep your strength up, Abigail. We all do. So go lie down, and get some sleep. I’ll wake you when Pearson’s stew is ready and we’ll all have a proper meal. Arthur’s been taking care of that fool for most of his life. He’ll be fine.” Miss Grimshaw said, an air of finality to her speech. She turned on her heel and only paused to indicate that Abigail should follow. “Come on, then.”

Abigail stared for a long moment into Arthur’s eyes before she sighed again, defeated. “Fine then. Come along, Jack.” 

They moved off, leaving the creaky chair beside the cot vacant. Arthur sat down, and tucked his cold hands into his pockets. His stomach gurgled with hunger. He considered that wretched can of salted offal that sat in his satchel. The one Pearson had given him. Only for a moment. Venison stew was most definitely the better option. Dealing with hunger pangs for another hour or so wouldn’t kill him. 

As a distraction, he busied himself with looking John over. He did seem a bit better than he’d been the day before. Arthur had only seen a moment of the fevered thrashing, and the whimpering before he’d been told to kindly see his own way out of the cabin. That of course was putting it lightly. It was more than likely that he’d been asked to leave over his voicing the question of retrieving the Reverend. 

He hadn’t meant anything by it. If he was being honest with himself, he’d been worried. Scared even. He’d been thinking about that story John had told about that feller that’d been bit by a dog and died an hour later. It had been a very short story, told on horseback while riding through ice water to throw any wolves off their scent. Too short.

He’d been afraid that John might actually die. 

Over the years, he’d seen the dumbass do some...well, some dumb things. Gotten himself pretty hurt at times. But somehow, he always miraculously came out of it. He was a lucky bastard. He was a good fighter, a real good shot, and...despite their differences...he was Arthur’s friend. 

Arthur scoffed to himself, sitting back in the chair. It creaked softly in protest. He’d beaten John up pretty badly when he’d shown up in camp after disappearing for an entire year. If it had been anyone else, he might have killed them. But it was John Marston. One of Dutch and Hosea’s sons. Arthur’s brother.

“A-Arthur.” Came a near-silent wheeze. 

Arthur paused in his musings. A bead of sweat slid down the side of John’s face. His visible eye was still closed, moving a bit under the lid. His chapped lips parted, his breath creating small, laboured puffs in the cold air. “Arthur,” came a dry rasp. 

“You awake, Marston?” Arthur asked quietly, moving the chair a bit closer. He placed a hand on gently top of the blankets, over John’s chest. His visible eye fluttered open, but didn’t really seem to focus on anything. 

Probably the fever, Arthur thought, reaching for the water Abigail had kept by the cot. He poured some in a tin mug, and reached for John. Carefully, he lifted his head and pressed the mug to his parched lips. 

He felt hot to the touch, and damp with sweat. Even in between consciousness and unconsciousness, he still drank. Too quickly. He struggled under the blankets, freed a hand and grasped Arthur by the wrist. Arthur in turn berated him, “Slow down, Marston, you’ll make yourself sick. Relax.” 

It seemed to calm him. He slowed down his desperate slurping. His grip on Arthur’s wrist loosened. 

So Arthur kept talking, “There ya go, easy now. Damn it, I said easy.” John drank the last of the water, and panted from the effort. He still held onto Arthur’s wrist as the mug was lowered. 

“Arthur,” 

“I’m right here, Marston. Pipe down, will ya?” Arthur grunted, laying John’s head back down so he could pry his fingers off of his wrist. 

He paused, when he saw John looking at him. His eye was hooded, and slightly out of focus, but he was definitely seeing Arthur...sort of. 

His thumb stroked back and forth on the inside of Arthur’s wrist. 

Just like he used to do.

Tensing, Arthur put his hand over John’s and finally freed himself. The man in question seemed to slide back into unconsciousness. Arthur slipped John’s hand back under the blankets and huffed in irritation. 

He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had been paying attention. Not really. Most were dozing, heads ducked low to their chests, trying to keep warm. Only Hosea, who sat near the door with a rifle in his lap, seemed to be alert.

And he was looking quietly at Arthur. He gave a questioning tip of his head. Not knowing what else to do, he nodded back. The old man always seemed to know more than he ever spoke aloud. Arthur wondered, not for the first time, if he knew what he and John used to get up to years beforehand. 

Hunting. Stage robberies gone sideways. Bar fights. Bank jobs in which they’d barely gotten away by the skin of their teeth. Fumbling in the dark together. 

Arthur thought about a double hanging his father had drunkenly heard about once. “Unnatural acts,” was all Arthur had known about the crimes of the two men. Maybe some cattle rustlin’ too, or something like that. But the “unnatural acts” bit stuck with him most. That was because, according to his father, no son of his would ever be any “goddamn sodomite.” He’d beaten him to prove it too. It had made sense in the old drunk’s mind. He thought he could beat all the sin right out of Arthur. 

It might have worked. Arthur did his best to avoid even the thought of “unnatural acts.” It had been a non-issue most of his life. At least before John fucking Marston had changed things. 

Arthur bit his tongue, trying to block out the “unnatural” things he and John had done years ago. Wasn’t right. Shouldn’t have done any of that. What if someone found out? It just wasn’t right.

“Arthur,” John breathed, his head slumping to one side. Arthur refrained from knocking the fevered man upside the head to shut him up. Now he believed he knew why Abigail was looking at him sideways. She knew.

“Shut up, John.” Arthur grunted.


End file.
